


The Death List

by Onediewreckshun



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Death List, Fluff, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smutty, angust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:22:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onediewreckshun/pseuds/Onediewreckshun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breaking the law gives you a greater percentage of being chosen on the Death List. Louis breaks laws a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death List

I looked over my shoulder as I crossed the street. My paranoia has been switched to high since this morning. I remembers the sirens and the lights, the Tranquilities. They had me cuffed and against the car smudged with artificial paint and tangy smells. The Tranquilities weren't very professional, let alone official. I wished at that moment that I had been born in a different Sanction, where Tranquilities weren't as strict or not nearly as unprofessional. The people of the other Sanctions were cleaner and nicer and calmer. It seemed as luxury everyday over there, or as he's been told. It's not like I've been there, although the though of visiting— heck, living there was pleasant. I remember another Tranquility official forcing my head down onto the windshield of the car. What had he done, again? Steal? Probably. Something as little as a postcard got you thrown in jail for a few days here in Sanction A. A stands for Authority, or in my case, Assholes. I didn't even remember what I had stole, and the Tranquilities probably didn't either so I went through the normal routine. Behind bars for 5 days, and 10% added to my rating. My rating was pretty terrifyingly high, yet others have nearly 200% for theirs and still have yet to be chosen for the Persecution. Supposedly, if you reach past 50% of ratings you are listed among many others who have reached the same point as you, or higher, then five are picked 'randomly.' Those five lucky victims are thrown in the Persecution arena, in which they face 4 obstacles that include gas chambers, poisonous insects that get upgraded every year, infected wounds, and amputation. They're all changed every year, possibly a notch of more poison or more mild amputations. You either bleed to death, scream to death, or you survive. Just kidding, that never happens. I didn't worry about my rating too much, though. I've seen people with 0% getting thrown into the arena. Pretty organized government, if you ask me. I continued my walk into the main street, where I was greeted with large amounts of teenagers, walking with their heads held too high of their pants too low. Old styles were coming back, I guess. All of the teenagers straggled to their work places and got to work, eager for their daily revenue and high calorie meal at noon. I turned into the entrance of the factory, and furrowed my brows at the sight of an empty doorway. I walked into the factory anyway, and sat in my section before tapping the boy next to me. "What happened to Joe? I almost miss being shoved in here." Anthony doesn't even take the time to pause his working so he could look at me when he replies, "Former Tranquility official. They notified him early. He's been chosen from the Death List." I give him a confused look. "So, why is he not here? The Persecution isn't for another week." Anthony sighed. "Would you want to spend your last days on earth in a factory that runs on cow manure and is the reason for your partial deafness, half due to the machines and half due to the wailing of children who probably got their fingers _stuck_  in a machine?" I was silent, so Anthony spoke again. "Plus, he's preparing." I scoffed. "Preparing for what? Death?" I then remembered that Joe had been Anthony's uncle, but Anthony interrupts me before I can apologize. "No. He's going to be the first person to make it out of there. Write his story down, make copies, make millions. You just watch." Anthony spat, and stomped away to a different machine. I don't know how to feel, so I try to concentrate on scrapping left over cotton from the bottom of the machine when something caught my eye. Or should I say _someone._  A kid, floppy haired and small in size. A new one, he must be sixteen. His arms wrapped around his waist and his shoulders hunched forward. He was being guided by an instructor. The instructor cleared her throat: "Would anyone be willing to take this new kid in and teach him to work a machine?" No hands. "Please?" The boy next to her hugged himself tighter and I noticed a gaze over his eyes. I felt something in the pit of my stomach. Pity? Maybe. I raised my hand, or, I don't know. I think I did because the boy and instructor walked towards me, and I heard a quiet, "Thanks." "No problem." I hoped. The instructor walked away. "So.." I tried to make my voice as calm as possible, but even then the boy flinched back. "No, no no no, I'm sorry. I didn't—" I began to reach for the boys shoulder, but he flinched again. This is going to be an easy 7 hours. I started slow at first, showing the boy how to spread the cotton into this layers. "Hey, um." I tried to fathom my thoughts into something wasn't dumb."Um, so what's your name?" The boy swept a piece of loose curls from his face and avoided eye contact with me. "Harry." Harry. Clique name. Easy. "How old are you, _Harry?_ " I joked. I don't think Harry acknowledged it. "Sixteen." As I suspected. "Hey, you're doing great. Actually," I stopped, observing the layers of cotton that seem sculpted from, I don't know, God. "That's actually better than mine." I felt anger rise in my throat and through my veins. How could they be so perfect? Was it the cotton? "How do you do that?" Was the only think I could think of saying. "Oh um," Harry's eyes looked at anything but me. "My mother used to work in a factory. She showed me everything. She taught me, so I could work in one someday. And here I am." I nodded. "Wow, I should get some lesson's from your mother someday—" "No!" Harry cried. "I mean, she's not, like, here. She's um." Harry's eyes clouded over and he managed to wipe them with the hem of his sleeve before they fell. "She was on the Death List. Because of me. It's my fault I—" Harry started to sob, hiccuping and trembling from the shoulders down. It was only then that I noticed the lavishing green of his eyes, the way his lips curl almost in a ripple and his flushed cheeks that are now stained with tears. He was beautiful. More beautiful than I could have imagined, heck, a movie star being. "No, please don't. Don't cry, Haz." I tried. His eyes widened at the nickname and the trembling spread, up until it seemed as if he was having a seizure. The sobs turned into wails and I thanked the lord above that the factory was always ear blisteringly loud. I scooted closer to Harry and rubbed his wet cheek with my thumb. "Shh." I cooed, but when that failed, I scooped him into my lap so that he was facing me, and I gently held him by his tiny waist. His sobs had died down into cries as I rubbed small circles into his sides and whispered weird things that I am surprised to even be saying like: "It's fine, love." And, "You're okay, babe." I didn't keep him on my lap for long, though. I probably would've done something stupid like kiss him or whatever. But even if he wanted to kiss me back, it wouldn't be allowed. So I patted his back and went back to work.


End file.
